


Wanheda

by ChampionofKirkwall



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 3x07 spoilers, F/F, Fix-It, POV Switches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampionofKirkwall/pseuds/ChampionofKirkwall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fix-it fic for season 3 episode 7</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanheda

Hands shake as they press against open flesh. Clarke sees Titus’s movements in her periphery—surgical tools laid out over the bed. These are not Grounder tools.

“What the hell is that?” The Flamekeeper does not acknowledge her demand. “Titus, what are you doing?” He does not respond. Clarke’s panic deepens. She turns to Lexa and refocuses on her task. Stop the bleeding. “We will fix you,” she promises. Lexa’s body shakes, her breaths coming in short, cut-off gasps. She is already in shock. “Just stay with me.”

Titus comes to her other side, closer to Lexa. Clarke shakes him off. “Get away from me,” she hisses. Away from Lexa.  
He lifts his hand, and Lexa’s eyes meet his. Clarke forces herself to step back, maintaining pressure on the bullet wound. Titus’s hands cup his Commander’s face as he leans forward, bringing them closer.

“Forgive me, _Heda_ ,” he whispers.

Lexa’s muscles contract and release, her body in tremors—jaw clenching and unclenching, but her eyes remain steady. “ _You will never again attempt to harm Clarke_.” Her words are fast, yet they retain the weight of an order. “ _Swear it_.”

“ _I swear it_.”

Lexa nods, and closes her eyes. A tear rolls down the side of her face.

“ _Then do your job_.” She looks at Titus once more. “ _Serve the next as you have served me, Flamekeeper_.”

Titus releases her face and steps away. Clarke quickly takes his place, heart racing and hands shaking. “Hey,” she orders. Lexa fists the bedsheets, fighting for an even breath. “Don’t you dare give up on me.”

Green eyes meet blue. “I’m not.” Her jaw trembles, and Clarke presses her hands further against the wound, wishing she could only push the blood back in. Lexa’s throat jumps in her struggle to speak. “My spirit will fo-”

“No,” Clarke interrupts. No. “I am not letting you die.” She will not die.

Fondness flashes in Lexa’s eyes as she tries to reason. “There’s nothing you can do now,” she soothes. “The next Commander will protect you.”

The next Commander?

The next Commander can go float themselves.

Clarke takes Lexa’s hands and pushes them against the towel slowing the bleeding. She moves to the wall near the bed, grabbing the fire poker and throwing its end in the fire. Her steps are quick and determined as she returns to the Lexa’s side.

“I don’t want the next Commander.” She picks up the scalpel and looks Lexa in the eye, her throat growing thick. “I want you.”

Titus steps forward and Clarke shakes him off once more.

“I must begin the ritual,” he insists.

Clarke takes the thoroughly soaked towel and uses it to mop away the thick blood. “Your people call me _Wanheda_.” Black-stained hands move quickly over shaking flesh. “I am the Commander of Death.” Tearing a piece of fabric- “And I _will_ -” placing the cloth in Lexa’s teeth- “command it.” Lexa clenches her jaw around the torn cloth and nods. “This is going to hurt.” She points to the Commander’s legs and Titus pins them down. “Stay with me.” Please.

Lexa’s hands turn to fists in the bedsheets as the scalpel sinks into her flesh.

_No exit wound. Have to get the bullet out._

Clarke’s hands are no longer shaking. Black blood seeps out around the steel as she widens the entry wound. The scalpel is tossed aside for forceps and she takes care not to move them too much, searching for the foreign object. Clarke feels the prongs of the forceps strike something hard. She takes hold of it and gently pulls it out—thick, black liquid flowing out around it

Lexa gasps as the bullet leaves her body, still shaking and quickly losing blood.

“Get me the poker,” Clarke orders. As Titus retrieves the fire poker, she pours the remaining water over the bullet wound and wiping it away. Titus hands her the red iron, cloth wrapped around one end to hold.

Lexa’s eyes blaze when they meet hers. Clarke inhales shakily. “Stay with me,” she pleads.

Clarke presses the red iron firmly against Lexa’s bullet wound, and a throaty scream shatters through the room.

Clarke is distantly aware that her face is wet. A combination of blood, sweat, and tears. After pulling away the hot fire poker, she dumps a pitcher of wine over the wound. She tears off part of the blanket and wipes down Lexa’s abdomen to check for more bleeding.

Lexa, who has gone quiet. Head lolled to the side, lips parted. Eyes shut and breath slowed. _But still alive_.

“Get something to sterilize the wound and some clean bandages,” Clarke commands, voice thick and hoarse.

She looks to her side and sees that the Flamekeeper has not moved. “Titus,” she asserts. His eyes part from his Commander and he nods, stepping back and leaving to follow orders. A second pair of footsteps comes up behind her.

“Clarke,” he begins.

“You need to leave, Murphy.” Clarke swallows, arms hanging at her side. Taskless, yet needing to act. “Take one of the horses and ride for Arkadia. Any of us outside the border after sunset have a kill order.”

Murphy’s hand settles on her shoulder and squeezes for just a moment, before he heads for the door.

Clarke lets herself sink onto the edge of the bed.

“You did everything you could have done,” Murphy says from the doors. “If anyone could save her, it’s you.” The air is so silent now that her heart is not pounding in her ears. “But even you’re only human, Griffin.”

The door closes.

The Commander of Death is only human.

Clarke Griffin is only human

And Lexa?

Lexa is the future of Clarke’s people and hers. The Commander of the Thirteen Clans. The youngest Nightblood to ascend to the throne. The woman who spared her people for the sake of an alliance. Who abandoned her on the Mountain to spare her own people. Who sent for her when Ice Nation wanted her dead. Who brought her people in as the Thirteenth Clan. Who named her Ambassador. Who understands her. Who loves her.

Who lays a mere foot away from her, somewhere between alive and dead.

What if Clarke wasn’t fast enough? If there’s still too much internal bleeding, it doesn’t matter if the surface bleeding has stopped. If Lexa has lost too much blood, there’s nothing Clarke can do for her. If Clarke did manage to save her, there is still a risk of infection.

Clark removes the cloth from Lexa’s mouth and lightly cups her face.

“Stay with me,” she breathes. “Please.”

 

_That’s why I- That’s why you’re you._

 

Clark does not leave Lexa’s bedside. The blood is cleaned away and the blackened furs are removed. She regularly cleans the gunshot wound with alcohol, doing as much as she can to prevent infection. The next night, Lexa’s skin burns, and Clarke fears the worst. But when dawn breaks, so does the fever.  
Yet she still doesn’t wake.

Clarke sits in a chair by her side. Empty, because feeling anything is too much until she knows what will come of this. Knuckles still red from punching Titus in the cheek after the rush to save Lexa.

She wishes for the time only days ago when everything felt right.

 

_“Maybe some day you and I will owe nothing more to our people,” she tells you. You feel the corner of your mouth twitch up and your heart swells with bittersweet agony. Maybe some day. Some day you will not owe your entire being to your people. But that day is not in this lifetime. When the Commander’s spirit moves on, you will no longer owe your people._

“I hope so,” you tell her. Because you do. She cannot know how much you do hope that is so. You extend your arm out towards her in farewell. “May we meet again.”

Her arm reaches out and grasps your forearm. You gently squeeze your hand around hers. If this is your goodbye, you will cherish it.

Yet her gaze falters. Her eyes fall to your mouth and a hand rests against the back of your neck, pulling you closer and lips press against yours. Clarke kisses you and you raise your hand to hover near her jaw. You do not take the lead.

Clarke decides every move and you give her everything in your being. You are already hers. You try to give her all that you are in gentle touches, leaving it up to her to take as much of you as she wants to have. You know you are desperate and you can feel yourself falling apart but all you can think of is the woman before you, kissing you with as much need as you are. Desperate pleas beneath the surface.

Please don’t go. Please come back to me. Please love me. Please don’t separate us again.

Please. Stay with me. 

 

Lexa is asleep for days. Clarke remains in the bedside chair, willing her to wake up.

_Jasper had a spear in his gut for days and I saved him_. Clarke sits with her knees drawn up to her chest, fingertips gnawed at and head resting in her hands. She considers the time Lincoln died only for her to bring him back. The time she burned three hundred grounders to ashes. The time she killed the colonists in Mount Weather. The time she saved the Commander of the Thirteen Clans only for her to stay unconscious for days.

There is a rustle in the room. When the voice speaks, it is hoarse.

“I guess you really are the great Wanheda,” she groans.

_Lexa_.


End file.
